Despotism
by Avaritiae
Summary: Hermione Grindelwald. Hermione Granger. She was beginning to forget her existence — and why she was here, in Hogwarts. \\ AU: 1940s \\ Tomione
1. Änderung

**A/N **AU was harder to write than I had originally anticipated...ugh. Hermione as Gellert Grindelwald's daughter, additionally, was not my idea either. I suggest all the readers to check out the work _Grindelwald's Daughter _in the archive (I had forgot the author's name. If anyone could remind me, PLEASE).

The idea opened up to endless possibilities and so I thought, why not give it a try? Though, I'm sure it won't be as good as the original one.

I do not own _Harry Potter_.

* * *

Chapter Playlist — "Nero"

Composed by Thomas J. Bergensen

Performed by Two Steps From Hell

* * *

Despotism

I. Änderung

"It is said that power corrupts, but actually it's more true that power attracts the corruptible. The sane are usually attracted by other things than power" — David Brin

* * *

_2 January 1943_

_Burg Hohenzollern, Mount Hohenzollern, Baden-Württemberg, Germany_

The biting German winter wind swept across the quiet landscape. It was a day after the New Year's Celebration in the nearby Muggle town of Hechingen, located just on the foothold of the majestic Mount Hohenzollern ever since the Middle Ages. Just by the merry colorful lights emitted from the village, it was clear that the air of festivity still lingered. There was not a hint of menace and threat.

The Hohenzollern Castle located on the top of Mount Hohenzollern had became a ghost of history after the fall of the Prussian aristocracy family, the House of Hohenzollern. The German government was still too lazy — and fearful of Hitler — to tamper with the property that sprawled itself on the top of the mountain, which was currently covered in the purest shade of white, courtesy of the signature Germanic winter. The quiet snowflakes fell freely onto the stony exteriors, creating a rather fluffy blanket over the aged building and protecting it from the inevitable darkness of the night. The appeal of the castle laid not in its magical, surreal nature (though there are plenty of fairy-tale-like mystique around it), but its unmatched grandeur and invoking countless awes from anyone who laid eyes upon its features.

It wasn't until about a month ago when the castle was purchased — at a lavish price — by a mysterious yet charming man of foreign blood, accompanied by a much younger, and quite beautiful girl. As rumor has it, they arrived in the shade of the night, their faces veiled and their bodies heavily clothed. The carriage was almost as extravagant as the Queen's own. But what the people thought was the strangest was that the two new arrivals did not carry anything with them, save for the two leather handbags. It almost seemed as if they were the usual tourists.

For the past few weeks or so, the couple had became the top topic of gossip among the ever-inquisitive residents of Hechingen Village. It was spotted by the curious eyes of talebearing women that the man was around his late forties, and had hair of gold and an attractive face. And, for the sake of stories and speculation, it was also noted that his manners were one of the finest Hechingen had encountered (not that he interacted with the villagers much), and was always immaculately dressed whenever he was seen in public (not that he ventured out of the castle much) — no doubt born of high society.

The girl was a less popular subject of conversation, though still a common acknowledgement. She was hypothesized to be the man's girlfriend of some sort, a mistress, perhaps. And then there were a few argued against such scandalous theory, stating that she had bore great resemblance to the man and was in fact, his daughter.

Nevertheless, the two strangers was now Hohenzollern's own overnight sensation.

* * *

_21 February 1943_

_Burg Hohenzollern, Mount Hohenzollern, Baden-Württemberg, Germany_

A clatter of porcelain teacups echoed throughout the Baroque-styled hallway, which, like all the other ones, overflowed with antique ornaments and accentuated the royal purple wallpaper with paintings, vases, and various silks and jewels of exotic locations.

The Ballroom-turned-Dining Room in the East Tower was perfect for a secluded conversation, away from the prickling ears of eavesdroppers. The flamboyant setting of the room, however, was nothing when compared to its excessively ostentatious owners.

"Those Muggles are still blabbering about us," the blonde man snickered. He raised the steamy cup of tea to his perfectly shaped bow lips, but his penetrating blue eyes were focused on every miniscule action of the girl sitting in front of him. "Don't slouch, dear. It makes you look _vulnerable._" He commented softly.

The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat, "Of course," she replied, just as obedient as he expected her to be, and avoiding his eye contact. Straightening her spine, she continued to stare out of the window into the cloudy, misty sky that seemed to be the only type of weather Germany offered. Since she had arrived, the ambiance was nothing like the sunny Decembers in Greece or the breezy Augusts in Norway. It was cold, aloof, and the sunlight had never dared to penetrate through the winter clouds. It was a constant reminder of her father.

Clearing her throat, she willed herself to shift her gaze to the figure in front of her — just for a millisecond, before her eyes flickered themselves involuntarily to somewhere else in the lonely room. She made sure her attention was fixed on a sixteenth century Vermeer portrait before she finally said, "The curiosity of Muggles are rather hard to repress,"

The man made no more comments after that. The only sound that could be heard was from the clicking of gilded plates and elaborate silverware. Dining had always been a silent business in the Grindelwald Family.

* * *

_1 April 1943_

_Rhine River, Düsseldorf, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany_

A thin stream of human blood trickled evenly into the murky waters of Rhine. The crimson liquid was immediately engulfed by the blue abyss once it had touched the surface of the river — unless one had looked carefully at the imprints of red left on the rocky path, there would be no trace of blood remaining in plain sight.

"See, my dear girl? This is what happens to the _unworthy ones_ who betray my trust,"

Hermione Grindelwald stood impassively next to the towering wizard that was her father. She had inherited the sharp, yet eerily angelic appearances of the man, but her eyes were in the shade of hazel — a clash of green and amber, ice and fire, hatred and passion. _It is too much like your mother,_ he would sneer on occasion, a constant reminder of what she will always represent: weaknesses. Flaw. Deficiency. Fragility. The list could go on forever.

And her hair. Her ludicrous, utterly stupid hair. Hermione its dull brown coloring. It was so...so generic, so common, so like her mother. A woman. A part of a forgotten piece to history. Useless. Powerless. _Dead._ That was all the maternal role has ever been to Hermione: subservient to paternal branch of control and greed.

The way unadulterated disgust flowed into his father's mesmerizing azure irises when he looks at her used to be agonizing; she had embodied her mother so much that it almost drove Hermione to the brink of insanity. She hated herself more than she could ever hate anyone else. She hated her existence.

The way her father's followers watched her when they thought she wasn't looking, almost as if in pity.

The way whispers echoed throughout the hallway when she appears, carrying the silent murmurs of the maids and their little sob stories that Hermione found absurd.

The way she looked into her own portrait gazing back, unabashedly, at her own physical self, mocking her, taunting her.

That was the young, naïve girl she used to be, indulged in childhood fantasies and unrealistic expectations. Soon, she had learned the ways of _fehlt der Herzen_ — the complete lacking of humanity — deceit; the only method to survive in the world of Grindelwald. The neighboring children (or "inferior scums", as her father would refer to them as) would look to her in admiration and reverence, like she was the master of them all, that she was something that they could never be. Parents alike marveled at the young girl's intelligence and charm. "You are the luckiest father I have ever met," they would proclaim to the man that was somehow unaffected by their appraisals. The world was a pleasant place for those who did not feel.

The sixteen-year-old witch still stood firmly by her father's side, for he was the personification of absolute power, wisdom, fame, and beyond. Two lone figures in black cloaks stood, pride gleaming in their eyes as they watched the world at their feet, the elation of finally reaching the top, where no one else could — all those years of sufferings were nothing. They had paid off.

"The man deserves no less, father."

* * *

_10 April 1943_

_Inveraray Castle, Inveraray, Argyll, Scotland_

They had relocated once again. This time, they were closer to _It._

After weeks — months? — of negotiations, briberies, and a few underhanded spellwork thrown in, the comfort of the Inverary Castle, sat on the Scottish shore of Loch Fyne, was finally passed from the lines of Duke of Argyll to the hands of the Grindelwalds.

It was not as nearly expanse and architecturally complex as Hermione had used to, especially after years of remaining in the historical remnants in Germany, but the Celtic sceneries and the landscapes compensated. The vast land was also proven useful when she had wanted to practise spells, specifically preparing for her latest assigned task.

"...stay out of that old fool's nose, but always keep a close track of him. I shall trust in your abilities, so much that placing additional spies within the parameters will not heed as necessary." Her father's calm voice droned on, occasionally checking his encrusted pocket-watch as if he has got an important appointment to make in the upcoming hour — which Hermione was sure he does not. Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, he added, "We shall need to keep in close contact. I need weekly reports on your progress,"

"Yes, father,"

"And what do you have on the Stone of Resurrection?" The sitting wizard asked in a rather nonchalant fashion, though his intense expression betrayed what he was feeling underneath. Hermione praised her father's expertise to hide himself behind carefully woven masks; but she knew exactly where to look for any signs of emotions from him. All those years of living with a sociopath relative has not gone into waste. She noted rather humorously as Grindelwald grazed his prized wand — the Elder Wand — possessively as if it was his thread of life. The carved patterns on the wood was hypnotizing.

"It is in the castle," Hermione replied, her voice matching the cold, lifeless monotone of her father. "I had placed a tracking charm on it before it was stolen. But, it is nowhere near Du—_him_, or any other teaching staff," she bit her tongue hard. The name was forbidden to speak in the presence of the man; one little slip-up and it could cost her his hard-earned trust, and her position as Grindelwald's most-depended-upon witch. She took a deep intake of air, "My guess that it is in the hand o-of...of a—"

Gellert Grindelwald's eyes flashed dangerously in frustration and anger. He cut her off abruptly, "You know how I hate stuttering," he spoke, barely in a whisper that could be passed as the Scottish Spring wind. "In the hand of what, stupid girl?" The statement was biting, harsh as the winter snow. Hermione shuddered.

"—a student." She finished. "Its movements are volatile. Therefore it would be safe to assume that the Stone is in an unfixed state. It is moving. And the only possible explanation for that would be that it is being carried," _It is only a theory._ She added on mentally. Locating the Stone of Resurrection was not the most enjoyable task she had been assigned: it had took her a year of sweat and blood and countless hours in the Dark Arts research before her wand finally lit up in recognition, only to realize that the little piece of rock was miles away, in a building protected by ancient magic and impenetrable barriers. Apparently, the magic was rather powerful, in which that not even a tracking charm could place it without heaving in a little bit of illegitimate spells.

Staring impassively at the man in front of her, Hermione had finally realized just how aged he appeared to be. In her memories, Grindelwald was always the man with the arrogant, yet mischievous and wild attitude that could not be found in anyone else she had encountered — forever young — indestructible in the face of Death.

The man looked pensive. He no longer meddled with his wand nor the pocket-watch. Time seemed to have been frozen as he sat, aloof and majestic, in the simple wooden chair, his mind on Merlin-knows-what. The silence that had passed between the father and the daughter dragged to the point of eternity; both of whom were absorbed in their own scheming, oblivious to their surroundings.

After what seemed like a million years, Grindelwald spoke again. "I had a chat with the ever-so-lovely Miss Joanna Granger last week," he said.

The statement was rather out of the blue. Hermione's eyes narrowed in curiosity and suspicion as she tentatively anticipated where this conversation was heading, for she knew that the "chat" between her father and the woman, Juliana or whatever her name was, certainly involved more than just a verbal conversation. But just the thought of her father getting _intimate_ with anyone was repulsive and utterly disgusting; the Grindelwalds could — would — never stoop as low as retorting to the means of seduction. She quickly shook that thought away.

"And...?" Hermione gestured for him to continue.

"Her grandfather was the Potioneer Hector Dagworth-Granger, founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, remember?"

_Dagworth-Granger._..it had sounded familiar, even though she couldn't place her finger on when exactly she had came across the surname, perhaps, in an old textbook that was tossed back into the Family Library. Whoever this Hector person was, he had picked a rather strange name for his little potion gatherings, Hermione suppressed a smile.

"I believe I had heard of him before, yes," she nodded. Now was the time to tread the waters carefully. "What purpose do they hold in our current situation?" Surely, with the status and power of Grindelwald, her father could easily scout for some much more affluent and old-money Wizarding families? Unless—

_—there is an ulterior motive,_ her thought finished for itself.

* * *

Chapter Playlist — "Schindler's List: Main Theme"

Composed by Barry Wordsworth

Played by Janine Jensen (violin) & The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra

* * *

_31 August 1943_

_Room 398, The Leaky Cauldron, London, England_

Hermione Grindelwald sat down the squeaky, makeshift bed in the corner of the tiny room. After years of luxury with Grindelwald's wealth, this sort of ghastly environment was not something she was used to.

Regardless, the level of the comfort in the Leaky Cauldron was not an appropriate topic she should put her mind to.

In less than twenty-four hours, she would board the Hogwarts Express to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry — an academy of magic that was often quoted upon by various research articles, or praised in great aptitude by _The Daily Prophet_, but never had been seen before by her own eyes. Though, her father had told her before leaving Inverary that Hogwarts' academia was a whole lot weaker than in Durmstrang.

That, and the school is tainted with filth:"Shameful, undeserving Muggles. They cannot control themselves — they need to be controlled," he had said.

She was never the one for extremism views on one's magical abilities, albeit her father's effort to discriminate and dominate the Muggles, Hermione tried her best to remain neutral; a single gray area in a world of black and white. She had seen what hubris had caused to history's great men — from the Biblical Lucifer's fall from the Light, the ancient tragic heroes in the Trojan War, to Caesar who thought to do no wrong and the hailed "Sun King" of France, King Louis XIV. Excessive pride, Hermione had gathered, was prone in absolute monarchs. Her father's mentality of Wizarding superiority had driven him to almost-fatal ends; it was only a matter of time when his culmination comes.

Reasonably, this was also presumably why she was here — to prevent the coming of the end for Gellert Grindelwald. To act as an _agent provocateur_ for her father's greatest enemy, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. To retrieve artifacts of the Deathly Hallows, the ultimate champions against Death.

Hermione prided herself in her logical, methodical ways of thought processing. She wasn't the one to spend times in popular superstitions of the day nor to dwell too much on useless emotions. But the fact that the two most important tasks of her life — Dumbledore and Death — are merging into one single mission concentrated, let alone in one exact location, was too good to be a coincidence. It had almost looked like the two involved factors was inconceivably linked together; that this puzzle for meant for her (and her alone) to solve. It had almost led to her to believe in Fate. _Almost._

In less than twenty-four hours, the mystery will finally be unraveled. She would not fail. No, she would finish her job flawlessly and in absolute perfection, just like a million times before. The childhood that was barely in existence, the twisted mixture of sensations in her heart as she first attempted an Avada Kedavra on an ant, the cold glance of her father's cerulean eyes, the strangled memories, the myriad of Unforgivable Curses flown out of her wand — they would not matter anymore. They would be forgotten for as long as she was taking on a new self.

With her expression unreadable, Hermione Grindelwald glanced down at the parchment lying lifelessly on her lap. The graceful calligraphy danced in front of her, but only two words held her undivided attention.

_Hermione Granger_

* * *

**A/N** I know that Hermione might seem...strange at the moment, and she lacks some proper character development, but I hope that will be changed soon in the future chapters.

So. Leave a review (all you favorite-ers and followers, I can see you, you know) ;-)

And if you have a plot idea that you think could fit well into the story — whether it relates to Tom, Grindelwald, whatever — feel free to share and I will consider it. Since I lack creativity at the moment, LOL.

And to the people who are reading _Best Served Cold_: the story will be updated slower since I'm currently going through writer's block. Again, like above, if you have ideas...SHARE THEM. :-)


	2. Steuern

**A/N** Wow, I'm so happy that I got such positive response on the first chapter. I didn't have much confidence in the story, but now, I think I could pull it through.

Horray to all the reviewers — _Guest, Guest, DauntlesslySlytherinTribute, Olive Green Jester, Atlantean Diva, LiesTemptHer, Forevercharmed01, __TheLightningScar_. YOU GUYS MAKE ME HAPPY. This chapter would not have been finished if it not for you guys.

I'm happy that there has been follows and favorites for this too. Yay! :D

/super excited.

I do not own _Harry Potter. _

N.B. This chapter has not been edited yet. So, if you spot any grammatical errors, point me out! Thanks.

* * *

Chapter Playlist — "Variations on an Original Theme, Op. 36, "Enigma": Theme – Andante

Composed by Edward Elgar

Performed by The London Symphony Orchestra

Conducted by Sir Colin Davis

* * *

Despotism

II. Steuern

"The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future" — Oscar Wilde

* * *

_1 September 1943_

_The Headmaster's Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

"Yes."

"Have you completed your five years in Durmstrang without any disciplinary troubles?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever come in contact with the Dark Arts?"

There was an abrupt pause. Then, "No."

"And you are well-acquainted of the...political uproar that is happening in England?"

"Yes."

Hermione bit her lips. The so-called "little interview process" that the old man was conducting, sitting across from her, was getting way overboard – why, exactly, did her opinions matter on trivial issues like this? Strangely, of all the things, her father had never warned her about the tricky admission process in Hogwarts. And now, she was stuck in the Headmaster's Office, trying to whack her brains out for answers.

Headmaster Dippet, luckily, seemed to take no notice of the girl's sudden discomfort as clasped his hands together, somewhat excitedly. His grey eyes danced in contentment and pride. "Excellent! Excellent! Miss Granger,"—Hermione flinched at the surname—"I'm sure you will fit right in with our students!" his booming voice echoed throughout the Headmaster Tower, the magical trinkets clattering under the effect of the sudden great sound.

Hermione wasn't sure which pitch was more annoying to her ears: the sound of Dippet's happy exclamations, or the screams of her father's prisoners.

"Thank you, Headmaster," she inclined her head like Grindelwald had taught her to do. _Show humility, child – even if you don't mean it, _the memory of his voice whispered against her ear. The proximity of the voice was frightening; as if he had been standing right next to the chair the whole time. Watching. Waiting. Just like the perfect hunter, obscured by the snow and the night, anticipating its prey.

It was not a pleasing image. Under the care of Grindelwald, she had never enjoyed the privilege of personal privacy. Hermione had secretly hoped somehow that the protections of Hogwarts would bring about security, for once in her life. The idea itself was utterly ridiculous, of course, for no matter how hard she tried, the assigned mission will always linger in the back of her mind and tugging her closer to a place she didn't know.

_Tugging me closer to what?_ Hermione asked herself curiously. The constant looming of an ominous premonition—it was driving her insane not knowing what it had signified.

"Your academic record showed that you had earned three _Outstanding Student Magical Achievement _award in only one year?" Dippet asked incredulously, pushing his glasses further up his nose to scrutinize the parchment in front of him, "Incredible!" his dilated pupils scanned the content of the files hungrily while talking to himself quietly, as if he was a child seeing the world for the first time. "What are some of your magical hobbies, if I may ask?"

She had been so engrossed in her own thoughts that she did not notice Dippet's awaiting expression. "Pardon?" Hermione asked tentatively when her gaze met the intelligent ones of the Headmaster.

"Oh, no, no," the old professor waved a dismissive hand. "It was just my old curiosity. Not to worry, not to worry…" And with that, he trailed off, with his attention entirely concentrated on another new subject. "Your, ah, great-grandfather, ah – Henry? – Yes, Henry Dagworth-Granger," Dippet nodded knowingly, content with his apparently excellent ability to recalling names, "I've heard from my colleagues a lot about him. Great man, no? Yes, definitely. An extremely talented student in Potions, if I may remember correctly," Pausing for a moment to think, he added on, "It was a disappointment that he was not my student. Very smart child he used to be, you know! Miss Granger, you are a very lucky student."

Hermione stared at him, unblinking. Part of her wanted to correct the old man: it was _Hector. _Not Henry. And a part of her wanted to hex him on the spot. She hated the last name; she was no longer a Grindelwald, the family of wizards that invoked the sense of fear and authority when spoken by another pair of lips. The only thing _Granger_ had achieved was to give off a sense of pureblood the name itself was screaming for confusion and controversy. Hermione knew very well what the word had meant. And of all the things in the world, Hermione Grindelwald will not be seeing as a Muggle Farmer.

* * *

_1 September 1943_

_The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

She hates it.

She hates the idiotic school and its even-more-idiotic policies. She hates the students, with their expressive selves and hearty laughter. She hates their delighted chatters. The professors' friendly glances and their attempts to make a conversation. The tempting aroma of the Opening Feast. The pleasant ambiance.

She hates them all. It was way too _warm _for her liking. Hermione preferred withdrawn abandoned gothic castles stashed away from civilization and carrying with them unspeakable secrets, forever buried in history. She wanted the glacial winters of Scandinavia, the proud, cold aloofness of Grindelwald Manor. Not any of _this._

Couple of students had already noticed her presence, and murmured quietly amongst themselves while sending her some inquisitive glances. Their curiosities were met with her indifferent gaze – which Hermione tried to not transform into an angry glare.

_This is getting nowhere, _Hermione huffed to herself. Standing next to the Professors' Table, it had given her an advantage to survey the students without being overly awkward. She had never seen so many teenagers gathered in one place before. But then again, Hermione had never really met anyone else her age before Hogwarts, either. The sudden shift of environment had proved to be a dreadful change.

"…time. Now, Miss Granger, if you please," it seemed that Dippet had finally finished his mile-long speech. He was now gesturing toward a crooked, half-broken stool in front of all the four tables for their respective Houses. Hermione highly doubted its ability to withstand her weight.

Sending a last contemptuous look at the squirming First Years behind her, she strode confidently to the Sorting Hat and its loyal three-legged stool. The Sorting Process, her father had said, would place potential students into four different Houses – Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff.

Not much detail was given about the latter two. The only thing Grindelwald had revealed was the fact that they were the "Houses for the weak." That statement was enough to make Hermione wrinkle her nose in disdain.

Gryffindor was supposed to be a place for the foolishly impulsive – or so he had said. And Slytherin, "Slytherin, Hermione, is where you want to be. It is the House destined for greatness; in it, you shall mingle with the crème de la crème of the Wizarding race. It is heaven for the shrewd and ambitious. It is the embodiment of _power_." Her father's ghostly whisper rang loudly.

_Slytherin. Slytherin. Slytherin. I want – _need_ – to be great. I need to be feared. I will be invincible. Slytherin._

"Why, hello there," A hoarse yet soft voice spoke from somewhere on the top of her head as the tattered Hat was dropped onto her head. Hermione sat, seemingly unfazed, facing the students of Hogwarts – countless pairs of eyes bore into her. The attention alone was making her palms starting to perspire. Always watching.

It was déjà vu all over again; that intense feeling of insecurity and hesitancy. The knowledge of knowing that she had an audienceto entertain.

"A brilliant mind, matched with immaculate magical skills. Some may say that you are a prodigy, Miss…_Granger_," The Hat let a chuckle. It was having a private joke of its own. "But there is one thing standing in your way to greatness – your virtues. Miss Granger, you are rather torn between two entities: between the nobleman you were born to be, and the Machiavellian you have grown to be—"

_Stop. You do not know what you are talking about._ The Hat – it was capable of freethinking! It had defied all sense of logic that an inanimate object could not move, let alone function like a normal human. Grindelwald had clearly underestimated its ability. Hermione let out an involuntary shudder; if such simple object could supposedly see her persona, then wouldn't her charade and her entire plan be lying out in the open in all their glory, for a _hat _to know?

And, who's to say that it won't speak to Headmaster Dippet, or worse, Professor Dumbledore, about all the information it had gathered?

Hermione clenched her jaw. This was not a good situation to be stuck in. Not only would the Hat know her better than herself, but also for the first time in sixteen years, she was being _dissected. _She had never felt so powerless.

"You do well in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, you know?" The Hat continued, choosing to ignore the internal turmoil within the girl. "The good ol' Ravenclaw, where the wise and the intelligent dwell! My girl, you shall never be bored there, I guarantee." Hermione's eyes blazed with anger and disbelief, but the Hat continued its chanting, "Gryffindor! The House of bravery, chivalry, and courage; where those pure of heart would find their likes! All of their kingly aspirations shall be fulfilled, you shall be amongst those who always enjoy a good adventure—and perhaps a little mischief, if you ask me…"

_Someone's ought to give you an award for your impeccable persuasion skills, _Hermione chided sarcastically. She could feel her heart slowly drifting in the other direction, where her father would be disappointed to know. However, after all, she was doing this for him, wasn't she? She has got to follow through with his intentions – not of her own. Her choices and needs did not need play a role, in anything. _Ever._

"You would have done well in Gryffindor, Hermione,"

_Cease your insolent chattering, you old fool._ _You do not understand a thing._

The Hat went silent. Hermione twitched slightly at its unexpected quietness. "It's your own life," it started, out of its moment of pensiveness. "A life is a human's great gift, wouldn't you agree? —No, do not answer that— My point is, Miss Granger, in life, we undergo many, many things. It is not what happened to us that matter, it is how we react in those circumstances that make us who we are. And sometimes…" its voice dropped to a whisper, a soft echo with the wind, "The void that is within us could not be simply be knitted together by desires. You could numb the emptiness, but it will never go away—"

_What are you now, a reincarnation of Socrates?_

Hermione felt sick. The red, yellow, blue, and green drapes danced around in her vision. The swishing of black student robes stealing away her attention, it was so similar to the dark abyss she was used to. Right now, all he wanted was to escape – to get away from the chaos she was trapped in.

The Great Hall was suddenly so claustrophobic, and the Sorting process was taking longer than she would have liked. Even the professors were getting nervous.

"In life, pain is inescapable, but suffering is optional." The Hat continued to be voluntarily oblivious to Hermione's angry outbursts. It spoke in its usual calm, soothing voice that possessed an omniscient aura. The Hat, Hermione realized, was everlasting. Not only so, but it had endured centuries of knowledge, sitting on the heads of millions – if not billions – of students with various backgrounds. She was, ultimately, nothing but a grain of sand. Despair overtook her senses.

No. She will not allow that to happen. She will be remembered. Her name would be engraved onto stones, bolded in textbooks, awed upon by the generations yet to come. She would be—

"Slytherin!"

Applauses erupted in the Great Hall as the Hat was lifted from her head. There were no more philosophic ponderings, no thought-provoking whispers or annoying _tsks _ringing in her ears anymore. There were only the silence in her mind, and the cheering of her new Housemates as she stumbled to the table of green. It was also Grindelwald's favorite color.

As she sat down, blending in with the rest of her unsuspecting peers, Hermione finally came to the solution of the problem that Hat had proposed.

Suffering is optional, too—if one is incapable to feel.

* * *

_9 September 1943_

_The Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_Father,  
_

_All is going well._

_The students here are tolerable – though, their etiquettes need severe reprimands. I have yet to locate the owner of the Stone._

_I thought you might be glad to hear that I had successfully made acquaintance with your nemesis, of whom, for the sake of your honor and my safety, I shall not name. They are rather brilliant, if I may say. It is a shame that such great potential is going into waste._

_As you may have heard, I am sorted into Slytherin._

_How are things going in Monaco for you? One of my classmates mentioned that the Muggle Royal Family there had unknowingly meddled with the affairs of a Pureblood aristocrat. Can't wait to see how the useless Ministries would react._

_I hope everything happens in your favor._

_H._

_P.S. You were right; Hogwarts is a rather awful place. The professors are incessantly inquisitive and ever nosy._

* * *

Chapter Playlist — "Concerto for Strings and Continuo in D Minor, R. 129: IV. Allegro"

Composed by Antonio Vivaldi

Performed The Academy of Ancient Music

Conducted by Christopher Hogwood

* * *

_30 September 1943_

_The Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

The attention on the new student has not died down—even when it has almost been a month. The arrival had not only proved to be an interesting case study of teenage social behaviors, but also a new topic for the Hogwarts gossips.

"Do you think, Deirdre, that her family is wealthy as us?" a petite blonde girl asked nervously, her green irises constantly flickering over to the Black Family heiress.

"Merlin, that's some genius there. Merrythought had never given O's to anyone before on an essay – not even to Riddle!" Antonin Dolohov, a gangly Sixth Year who lacked proper brain cells, barked loudly in his Eastern European accent to another lanky, quiet boy next to him. Sebastian Nott.

"—but of course, who would've thought a descent of Dagworth-Granger would be in Slytherin! Hah!"

"Did you know that Hogsmeade opened up a new boutique recently? I've heard from Mother that it's…"

"Goodness gracious, what an absolutely atrocious skirt! Jeanie dear, what had I told you about the fashion columns in _Witch Weekly_?"

"Damn, I think I forgot my textbooks in Slughorn's classroom again. That little old man is probably the strangest creature I have met. Let me tell you, just the other day…"

"But granted, she's not _that _repulsive. I, for one, find her to be very—"

"Lestrange, do you ever think before you speak with that disgusting mouth of yours?" an annoyed blonde sneered at the dark-haired boy who sat across from him near the fireplace. His hands were folded neatly together on his lap, and his legs were crossed at the exact one-hundred-degree angle; the perfect posture for a pureblood. He was able to remain in this state for hours without a flinch.

Ferdinand Lestrange let out a snort, drawing unwanted attention to the two from several corners of the Common Room. "Oh please, Abraxas, like you are any better!" He waved his hands around excitedly, "Courting girls from Ravenclaw, because you had already played with our girls, eh? Shamelessly talking – pardon me, _persuading _– that Gryffindor McGonagall, so she would lend you her Charms essay? Oh! What about the time when you were caught snogging Prewitt on the Second Floor? Mate, you are no less holy than you would like to think,"

"I am flattered that you have decided to invest so much of your energy in digging up my personal affairs," Abraxas replied coolly.

"Nay, nay," his partner leaned back into the leather sofa. The glint of fire danced in his chocolate eyes. "I care for my…friends, after all." Ferdinand grinned cheekily, running a hand through his mass of dark curls. "By the way, where is Tom, I wonder?"

* * *

Chapter Playlist — "Concerto in G Minor for Strings and Continuo, R. 153"

Composed by Antonio Vivaldi

Performed by The Academy of Ancient Music

Conducted by Christopher Hogwood

* * *

_23 October 1943_

_The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

The morning owls arrived as per usual. A swirl of earthy colors flocked above the heads of Hogwarts students, each carrying letters and objects (and occasionally a Howler) to their intended recipient. It was a routine that neither the students – nor the owls – were ever tired of.

A familiar barn owl swooped down to where Hermione was sitting at the Slytherin Table. She recognized the animal almost immediately. It was her father's favorite amongst all his messenger owls; not only could it fly faster than the rest, but it was gifted at avoiding attacks and had an average, unsuspecting appearance. She nicked the parchment from its leg gingerly, and handed the owl a tiny biscuit, which returned Hermione's gesture with an affectionate coo.

"A clever owl you got there, Miss Granger," someone sitting adjacent from her spoke, the voice was laced with amusement and lightheartedness.

This was not good; she was to be invisible, undetected and unsuspected by others. Nobody should have initiated a conversation with her. She was supposed to homogenize with her fellow Slytherins. Hermione Granger was to be seen as a civil yet shy (even haughty, if necessary), and a genteel girl raised in a refined pureblood household—the type of person that was hard to associate with, despite the current era of feminine conservatism.

Her instincts immediately tensed. Back with Grindelwald, no one had spoke to her unless it was a command – or a plea. Having other students so casually talking was pushing her impulses to an overdrive as her fingers grazed over the wand, sitting peacefully in her robe pocket. "Thank you, Mister Rosier," she nodded at the Seventh Year, ending the chat as quickly as it had started.

The letter, fortunately, was used as a method of distraction. Hermione unwrapped the standard black silk that was tied around the perfectly rolled parchment, so much like her father's constant need of flawlessness. A rush of nostalgia flooded into her. She had missed the days in the lonely libraries, the silent dinners, a confined sense of liberty, even the pumping adrenaline in her veins as an Unforgivable was cast. Merlin, even the petty servants and her father's little hate speeches were missed.

_Fräulein Hermione,_

_I'm glad to hear that you have earned His trust, even as a Slytherin. A bit of a conniving old coot, isn't he? I am very proud._

_How is the book he had given you? (Not too useful, I would presume.) In any case, you must do anything possible to delve deeper into his psyche – and plans, for I fear my culmination is coming. _

_Speaking of which, any news on the Stone? Hermione, you know that it is our last resort. I cannot overstate its importance. Both of our lives will be in danger if the Deathly Hallows is not conquered. Immortality and absolute power are the only two available options left. My days—and yours soon too, I fear—are numbered. The curtains are finally drawing to a close; it is up to you to finish the grange finale, which I am sure you will._

_As you are reading this letter, I am no longer in Germany. An asylum in Iceland had offered me shelter, under the guise of a mental patient, of course. It shall provide a dreamy sanctuary for sure. I wonder, for some entertainment, how long I could keep my act as a sufferer of schizophrenia._

_But no matter—it will be safe. No wizard could reach me there, unless this information is somehow leaked. Please do not write to me until you have received another letter from me, confirming my safety, or if an emergency arises._

_I trust that you shall destroy this letter immediately upon finish reading._

_May all your endeavors fulfill without difficulty._

_Yours,_

_G._

Hermione grimaced unceremoniously. _"May all your endeavors fulfill without difficulty"_? That was a rather sarcastic statement. A father and daughter's blind hope, nonetheless. Folding the parchment into a tiny square, she tucked it into her robe and making a mental note to herself to burn it with Fiendfyre once out of public scrutiny. Grindelwald's warnings has been clear: for reasons unknown, he was in danger, and she wouldn't last longer either – unless her resourcefulness and survival instincts could somehow save them.

She had to pinch herself on the thigh to make sure that this wasn't all just a dream.

Sighing discreetly, she was snapped out of her reverie when more students began pouring into the Great Hall, levitating the degree of noise to a whole new level. As hard as she tried, Hermione would not – and could not – ever get used to the sloppy, unorganized, and blatantly obtuse teens of Hogwarts. She never understood how one could retain the sense of complacency and remain blissfully ignorant for such a long time, like the students.

_Or, perhaps,_ a new argument slowly formed in her mind, she was the one who had been out of place—and experienced too much for someone her age, this whole time.

As her contemplation slowly drew into the external world, she noticed that someone had taken a seat opposite of her, next to Rosier (_Why am I surrounded by people? _She thought furiously). Her rising wrath was pacified by the sudden unexpected warmness of her wand, a sign that…Hermione's hazel eyes widened. It meant that _It _was near.

_No. No. No. That can't be! _

_Where is it?! _The morning gloominess was no longer there; her sleepy brain jolted to a wake, her knuckles turned into an unhealthy shade of white as her grip on her wand tightened. Hermione swallowed. There has to be a least four hundred students in Hogwarts, how was she supposed to search them all? _Remain calm. You must keep calm. You cannot let others see your sudden reaction. _

She took a gulp of the pomegranate juice; the iciness had temporarily chilled her thoughts. The Great Hall was not a place to act, not to mention the watchful pupils of Albus Dumbledore that had the ability to spot evildoings kilometers away. All Hermione could do was to curse her luck that the Stone was in a public scene, of all places.

"Finally woke up, eh Tom?" Another boy plopped down next to her. Hermione froze instantly. Only more Slytherins shuffled in, slowly closing in on her personal space. It seemed that this was the only place at the table where it was not crowded—Hermione cursed her luck again.

Of course, like all the other students of Hogwarts, she had recognized them all: Mulciber, Riddle, Nott, Rosier, Avery. The usual posse of Slytherin who strut around the school with their nose stuck in the air, and referring to themselves as the Knights of Walpurgis, a name that Hermione found to be downright abhorrent – just like their equally nasty personalities.

"Yes, last night was rather uneventful," Another silken voice (Hermione assumed that it was "Tom") answered Mulciber. "Your night went well, I hope?" he asked nonchalantly.

Of all the things Grindelwald had taught her, human interaction was never brushed upon. The Grindelwalds was never needed to speak to anyone with courtliness and civility, for Gellert and Hermione were above them all. They were _deities._

The mere sight of Hermione's wand alone was able to make anyone tremble and plead and acquiesce to whatever demands she had in mind. There would be no need for the so-called diplomatic babblings. She would be the one in control. Although, brandishing spells of Dark Arts right now in front of Hogwarts professors and students may not be a good idea. She sucked in a sharp intake of air

Sinking further into her seat, Hermione chose to put her attention on anywhere but the five Slytherins who just happened to be sitting near her. Instead, she had found the patterns on the ornate plates to be remarkably intriguing, and much more engaging than their current talks of their nightly activities.

"Ah! Miss Granger! What a pleasant surprise to have you joining us! Having a good breakfast so far?" Avery asked jovially. And, all of the sudden, Hermione found herself to be in the center of the Knights' (unwanted) attention. She wanted to crucio – no, murder – someone. Namely, the sandy-haired wizard who is grinning good-naturedly.

She inwardly scoffed; if there was one thing she knew about her housemates, it was that they never smile innocently. They smirk, and their eyes would have a certain menacing glow to them. If Avery was going to put an act, he should at least script his performance beforehand.

"The food is lovely. I hope your salad is delectable in your favor too, Mister Avery," Hermione smiled forcibly, and was glad that her voice did not betray her internal hatred and nervousness. She wanted to leave the Great Hall, to get away from artificial chitchats and pointless twaddle—even the mourning laments of her maids compared to this were sufferable. All Hermione wanted was to finish off Dumbledore, steal the Stone of Resurrection, and retreat back into her hermit shell in Norway. Perhaps, even set the school on fire along the way too.

Avery, however, did not seem to take the hint. He continued to talk to Hermione as if she was his long-lost best friend, "The morning salads are usually satisfactory. Though, sometimes, those House Elves overcook the chicken right here and leave a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. Disgusting stuff, you know? I wonder what would happen if that happened in my household. Surely, Father would…"

The rest of what Avery said, she would never find out. In the interest of her own sanity, Hermione had successfully tuned out all the vocal expressions of the wizard, and hopefully would never have a run-in with him again. She would nod and respond with _oh _or _ah I see _at suitable statements, seemingly committed to the silly conversation and inflating Avery's ego and his confidence. If it all works out well, she would have an affluent, pureblood on her side, executing all her wishes and perhaps lessen the demands of the mission. After all, if Avery was so keen on keeping his nice-guy façade, then two could play a game.

_In fact…_

An idea sparked in Hermione's mind. Why would she have to be the one taking on all the burden of her father's expectations, when the others could do the dirty work and she would take all the credit? Why would she risk her own safety when someone else could easily accomplish what she wanted, without the added threats? Hermione was fully aware of her ability to charm and manipulate – traits Grindelwald himself cultivated in her – and at the moment, she had the perfect setting, purpose,_ and_ a willing victim. It was an opportunity she would be stupid to let go.

To win against a snake, one must first act—and think—like a snake. If Slytherins prided themselves on their conniving abilities and shrewd dealings, then there would be no reason why Hermione shouldn't be like one of them. In fact, she would enjoy a stimulating mind game very much. That is, if they could live up to her standards.

Being under the same roof with a sociopathic, power-lusting, coldly calculating, and yet irresistibly charming man as her father wasn't exactly the ideal growth environment for a child – but it had refined Hermione's own art of scheming and crafty affairs, a gift she considered to be priceless (contrary to what the Sorting Hat believed). She was confident that she could surpass the students with ease, and a few professors, too.

The lost sense of confidence has finally found its way back to Hermione. She was the daughter of _Grindelwald. _The Norwegian and Germany Ministries backed her undertakings, influential men wanted her hand in marriage, women fought over her heritage, claiming to be her relative. From the moment she was born, Destiny had paved the road of gold and greatness for her. There was nothing to fear, for Fate would be on her side, just like it had been for her ancestors.

"But that idiot Potter just had to ruin it for us," Mulciber spat venomously. "I'm telling you, those Gryffindors had it in for them. Right, Tom?" the burly wizard nudged the figure next to him. He seemed to be brimming with such passion and sentiment that Hermione found to be quite funny.

"Yes, quite," Tom finally nodded; his voice was bordering on an arrogant drawl and cold sarcasm. Of all the Knights, he was the one who spoke the least – yet; all the members had sought after his opinions, fighting solely for his attention. It was a strange hierarchy that played out in front of her, making her wanting to know just what kind of authority this Tom person had over the other four equally (if not more) powerful, prominent wizards born to high society.

She had never heard of his last name, Riddle, before. Her father had made sure she was erudite on the Original Twenty-Four, the epitome of pureblood families with only the purest of blood running in their veins, and Hermione could bet on her life that the Riddle Family was not of pure origin.

Plus, _Tom _was an awfully ordinary first name for a pureblood child. There were no rich history behind the name, no constellation named in its honor, and it did not even appear in any of the myths. Tom Riddle was a mediocre and normal boy; the most he could be was a half-blood. And that had made Hermione peculiarly assured.

More importantly, if the Slytherins, and the rest of the school, for that matter, are willing to worship someone who's status is less than pure…then she, Hermione Grindelwald, would surely dominate the Hogwarts population with ease. Heck, they would be kissing the hems of her robes. Her ego hummed in satisfaction at the imaginary outcome.

It would be much more than imaginary. She would make sure it would happen in real life. Having sovereignty over Hogwarts would be the first step to a world of absolute power – despotism.

Hermione regarded Riddle carefully, taking in his countenance by detail. His cheekbones were pronounced, but not overly so, finely accentuating his smooth alabaster skin that would make any models scream in jealousy. Carefully combed dark hair that curled or clung in all the right places, and highlighting the flushed lips and equally mesmerizing ebony eyes that seemed to have no end, only a shade darker than his hair. There was no denying that he was one of the few most enticing male specimens in the school (not that there were many); she found no fault that could tarnish the image of symmetry and perfection. Tom Riddle was startlingly handsome, if not outright angelic.

_No, _she decided firmly, the last thing Riddle symbolized was something holy. There was something in his aura, she could feel it – it was similar to Grindelwald, projecting authority and dominance, but also a dark and inhuman desire. She could detect such a strong magical presence anywhere. He was not angelic; he was demonically enticing. Tom was the archetype of the sly snake in the Garden of Eve: tempting, alluring, captivating. The fall of mankind; corrupted and depraved, a priest's Lucifer, a girl's Adonis, a society's Dorian Gray. Yes, he could take over the world just by his appearance. He was _that _good-looking.

Hermione's lips thinned. As enthralling as her father had once been and luckily passing few traits to her, there was no way they could win against Riddle by outward appearances alone. This student was dangerous. For a place like Hogwarts, where the quality of education lagged severely when compared to her private tutors, it sure could breed some formidable beings.

"I wouldn't count on Miss Black being too amused by your tactics, Rosier. Perhaps another method," Tom – their leader, their king – murmured, puncturing through the bubble Hermione's own musings. His voice had an eerie calming effect on listeners; it was soft yet deep, melodious, as if he alone could replace the Choir of Angels.

For someone who had the blood of Muggles in his veins, Riddle was ridiculously skilled at masking it. Hermione almost believed that he was, maybe, the remaining pureblood heir to an extinct family.

However, it was neither his charm nor his blood status that attracted her to him. It was his hands—pale and smooth, unmarked by any callouses or heavy handwork. The fingers were long, elegant, the type that would be fitting for a pianist or a conductor. Nails impeccably manicured. Skin like marble. Her wand buzzed with excitement. Hermione caught her breath.

Time seemed to be have frozen as she sat, sandwiched between Mulciber and Nott, squished by other bodies of students, and facing the wizard who held the key to her survival – or death. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore; not when her objective was _right there in front of her_. She wanted power, she wanted immortality, she wanted knowledge. She wanted the Stone, which was on the ring finger of Tom Marvolo Riddle's left hand.

* * *

**A/N **This is over 5000 words! Gah. Ok, so, I figured that I have some explaining to do about the story itself and Hermione.

First, Hermione may seem OOC at times (even I think so, at few bits in this chapter). But she has been _living _with freakin Gellert Grindelwald for sixteen years. He's her father. And we all know how various nurture environments produce different type of personalities in children, without the need to take Child Growth Psychology or fancy stuff like that. Also, Hermione didn't have a mother. She lacked the emotional and self-confidence support of the traditional maternal role. She is not in touch with her feelings and could not interpret them properly. Therefore, she retorts to the only option available: she cast them off aside, viewing emotions and sentiments as human weaknesses. Additionally, the lack of a female in her life makes her extremely suspicious of others' intentions, and making her _very _independent. She values her personal space. Which, under circumstances, if she feel it is intruded, she will go into the offensive (or sometimes, defensive) position.

The broken family had left a gap within her and she seeks to mend it — in anyway possible. The fact that her father places so much importance on power, and raised in an environment where hierarchies and power politics are second nature, it is only a natural instinct for her to see the world as a cruel, black-and-white fighting ground: either you win or you lose. The winners are everything.

As she slowly integrate into the Hogwarts culture and away from the suffocating, trapped life she had led before, we will see the Gryffindor slowly seeping through, hopefully.

(And, I had tried my best to acknowledge Hermione Granger's original House, Gryffindor, during her Sorting. Even though for the story's purpose, she will have to be in Slytherin.)

About Grindelwald — I want to make him seem human. Hermione is his child. As cruel and sadistic he may be with Dumbledore and his enemies, he is still a human. It is within our instinct to care for our offspring (I think...). Though, he may not have been the best parent; manipulating Hermione to his own advantage, lying to her about his intentions, neglecting her needs, etc. Whatever. The bottom line is, however, for this story: Gellert Grindelwald, albeit his deceptive nature, loves his daughter. He wouldn't do things that would hurt either of them. I know this may be a surprise since JKR (or any other contemporary authors) has a tendency to portray villains/antiheroes as unfeelings, unloving beasts. That may be true in same case — such as TMR/LV — but Grindelwald is fully capable of emotions, even remorse and bravery, as we had seen in HP: DH. From a moral stance, he surpasses Voldemort. So it would be safe for us readers to assume he has humanity in him.

Again, this chapter is very much unedited and contains several mistakes. I apologize in advance, if you spot anything out of place, just shoot me a PM or somethin'.

By the way — I'm running out of songs for this story, and I'm sure some of you are not enjoying Classical musics. I'm always open to song suggestions. If you have a good piece in mind, I'll try to fit it into the chapters (and give you credit, of course).

Reviews make me happy :)


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